I'm With The Band
by 1755
Summary: What the hell kind of name was The Marauders? And what were they marauding against anyway? Regulus thought it all very ridiculous. Muggle!AU.
Written for Mickibooo for the March Fic Exchange. Prompts used: Regulus Black, Humour and Rockstar!AU. Okay, it didn't turn out very rockstar-y, but I hope that's all right. Actually my first time writing something so off-canon, but it was fun. It's more like a Muggle!AU and a Garage Band!AU.

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The Marauders. What a stupid name. The _Marauders._ What the hell were they marauding against anyway, Regulus would have liked to know. And why did they have to take up residence _here_ , in the Blacks' garage, and not over at the Potters, where the shed was just as big as this garage, and which was _far away_ from Regulus?

He eyed the large banner ( _too_ large, in his opinion) as it was being unfurled by Sirius, held at the other end by James, who'd decided to dedicate himself entirely to the rockstar lifestyle, having gone to the Salvation Army to procure himself a cheap five-pence pleather jacket after stealing one his father's peach-flavoured cigarillos, which was currently stuck between his lips. Regulus had asked earlier – James had no intention of _actually_ lighting it, of course. That would have been ridiculous, _obviously_. Sirius, for his part, had declared he would not cut his hair until it _at least_ reached his shoulder blades, and had begun experimenting with a goatee.

"So? Do you love it, or do you _love_ it?" James said, gesturing to the banner, which was actually just a bedsheet cut-up and resewn with yellow thread by James' mother. Someone had clumsily painted _The Marauders_ in large black swirling letters, probably Remus (who was currently tucked in a corner of the garage on a folding pink chair, notebook in hand, pen clicking between his teeth, presumably writing the most beautiful and deep lyrics a seventeen-year-old had ever written, or something).

"Yes. It's stunning." Reg folded his arms as he gazed at the thing critically. "Bit big though, don't you think?"

Peter, the excitable and decidedly rodent-like fourth member of the group, crawled out from behind the banner, a _juice box_ in hand.

"We're going to put it up behind us during gigs, right Sirius?" He stuck the straw of the box in the gap between his large two front teeth. Sirius, for what it was worth, played the part of the unaffected teen heartthrob well, and simply nodded, a faint smirk on his (frequently moisturized) lips.

"You haven't _gotten_ any gigs yet. Do you even know any songs?"

"Ah," James said, dropping the banner and coming over to Regulus. He threw a scrawny, pleather-covered arm over Reg's shoulders and took the damn cigarillo out of his mouth, sticking it in his front pocket. "That's where you come in. You're our new manager!"

He pushed James' arm off him, sniffing disdainfully. "I am _not_ anything of the sort, thank you very much."

James was not too be deterred. "That's the spirit!" He ruffled Reg's hair (which suddenly felt too long).

"What?" the younger Black spluttered.

"We need someone with _negotiation skills_ ," Peter said, slurping noisily on his orange juice. He pointed at Regulus, who rolled his eyes to the sky. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he would see the back of his brain, as clearly he would not be exposed to anything resembling one here today. "You're just the guy," finished the plump boy happily.

"I have no negotiation skills," said Regulus. This whole thing was absurd.

"Look at you go!" Peter said, clearly impressed. He tossed the empty box to the floor, which confirmed Regulus' long-held suspicion that the boy had, in fact, been raised in a barn.

"Look, Reg, my favourite sibling, my friend," Sirius said, finally finished with rolling up the poor disfigured bedsheet and coming to stand by Regulus. Simultaneously, both James and Sirius put their arms up around him again, as if they'd choreographed it. Actually, knowing them, they probably had.

"I'm your only sibling." He gritted his teeth.

"Then it's even luckier that I like you! Look, look. We both know you're the most conniving and manipulative one here," Sirius said soothingly. The boy flipped his stringy black hair out of his eyes (Regulus wondered if, along with the haircuts, his brother had also sworn off shampoo).

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome," Sirius said, smiling brightly at first but quickly fashioning his face in a scowl that was probably supposed to seem mysterious.

James tutted. "It's not our fault the rest of us are too _wholesome_ to, you know, book us gigs. We need you to play hardball with them."

"With who?" Regulus asked exasperatedly.

"You know, them. The people who book gigs." James waved around at invisible gig-bookers.

Pushing himself out from under their shoulders, Regulus went to sit on the green ride-on lawnmower's seat.

"This is stupid," he said, leaning on the steering wheel. "Do any of you even play instruments? Aside from Sirius, who took a guitar lesson once when he was twelve, and never touched the thing again."

Sirius gasped at the not-so-thinly-veiled accusation. "It was _two_ lessons, thank you, and yes, James is actually very good, _and_ he's been teaching me, I'll have you know."

"Consider it known," Regulus drawled. "And you two?"

"I've played the viola," Remus said from the corner, "which is basically the same as a bass guitar. Hey, what rhymes with heartbreak?" He scratched something in his notebook intently, his ratty old sweater making him seem for all the world a tortured graduate student poet.

"A viola. _Lovely_."

"We figure once we get a set of drums, we can just let Peter loose on them. He's a fast learner," James set, flashing a thumbs-up at his mousy little friend. "I'll be the lead singer and play the acoustic guitar, and of course, Sirius will be the dashing and unattainable lead guitar. With occasional forays into background vocals, on account of his experience as choirboy."

"Milkshake!" Peter shouted, and Remus nodded seriously, writing it down.

Regulus tapped his fingers on the lawn-mowers steering wheel. "This is a circus."

"Ah," Sirius said, taking the cigarillo from James' mouth and sticking it in his own, "bu' dish coul' be _yer_ shircush."

"What do you say, Reg?" Peter said. He was practically bouncing,

Well, it's not like it would go anywhere, anyway. Maybe one gig with an audience made up of mostly parents and grandparents. As far as commitments went, this was a small one, as long as he didn't have to spend too much time actually _listening_ to The Marauders. It would probably look good on his CV anyway; how many people could say they managed a music group at the age of fifteen? And then there was… Well.

"Fine."

Peter let out a whoop, James a cheer, Remus a desolate sigh. Sirius contented himself with shaking his brother's hand in a very lazy manner.

"Excellent. Welcome to the team," he said, _deeply_ unmoved.

"Thank you for having me. Now, if we could arrange something for payment, I'm assuming I'll be taking _at least_ a thirty percent cut?"

There was silence for a second. Even Remus seemed to have stopped writing angsty rhymes in favour of staring openly at the boy on the lawnmower.

"Wow," Peter said finally, his mouth agape. Regulus thought he might have been able to see all the way down to the boy's tonsils.

James seemed equally impressed. "He's perfect."

Well. This was _his_ circus, after all.


End file.
